


Stories About My Homebrew Classes

by Syntax



Series: Stories About My D&D Characters [5]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Animated Armor, Anthology, Assassins & Hitmen, Awkward Conversations, Clones, Disabled Character, Gen, Homebrew Content, Mistaken Identity, Sign Language, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:35:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27436690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntax/pseuds/Syntax
Summary: Sometimes you create the perfect character and then can't find a game to play them in. So naturally, the next best thing to do is write fanfiction about them.Chapter 1: Nines, Helmed Horror Commander WarlordChapter 2: Thorne, Half-Elf Order of the Ghostslayer Blood Hunter
Relationships: Sebastian Moran & Original Non-Binary Character
Series: Stories About My D&D Characters [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1832869





	1. Warlord: Commander

There was, as per usual as far as meeting rooms go, complete silence when they walked in.

For as little as they go together, the words "clamor" and "clandestine" really should be farther apart in the dictionary. If you want to keep something a secret, you don't make a lot of noise. If you want to keep something quiet, you shut your trap and wait.

Course, _they_ were at a bit of a disadvantage when it came to keeping silent, on account of one of them being made of leather and metal, and both of them carrying their weapons out in the open with them in pure practical sense. You don't go meeting people in secret rooms without expecting some kind of danger, and you especially don't go meeting people in secret rooms to discuss the terms of a hit without expecting that danger to get _serious_.

Their client scowled at the sound of Nine's plates scraping against each other, but said nothing. Smart woman. It's not wise to complain to people you already know have no problems taking a life.

The other one of them, the one made of flesh and blood, decided to capitalize on that lack of complaint by pulling a cigarillo from his coat pocket and lighting it up. Seeing the woman's scowl deepen brought a grin to his roguish face.

"You're late," she said, and clearly she wasn't as smart as they'd first thought she was if that was how she wanted to start things.

Nines gave her a quick once over, absolutely unnoticed to the woman while her attention was placed squarely on Moran and his blatant disregard. Immaculate health and slight training in magic, according to how the weave seemed to agree with her. The outline of her body against the background radiation of the universe showed a time-consuming hairstyle and clothes that looked to be cut in the commoner's style, but hung far too stiffly to be anything but brand new. This was a woman with ample free time and a large amount of money pretending to be a woman with neither of those things. To what aim, Nines couldn't pin down just yet.

She _could_ just be trying to distance this meeting from her regular life. She could also be trying to cheat them.

They would let Moran know what they've noticed when the time came to tell him.

"Madam, I believe you'll see that we're actually quite early," Moran drawled around his cigarillo. "You just came earlier than we did."

"If you're keeping a lady waiting, then you're late," she retorted hotly.

Nines brought their arms back to parade rest, tilting their head in a deliberate manner. They could sense the woman's attention shift to them for the first time. Or perhaps more specifically, to the heavy crossbow now visible behind their tilted head, judging by the spike of fear that bloomed around her in the weave.

"Is that so?" Moran said. "Forgive me, but I was unaware that you were a lady, Miss Chantrelour. I'm afraid you'd given quite a different impression earlier when you first requested our services."

There was silence. Facial expressions were being made, probably. Nines was little help for those. They could see magic because they _were_ magic. Things like expressions they would need eyes for.

Which was usually where Moran came in.

"I'm _not_ ," the woman ground out eventually. "And that is precisely the problem. The man who promised me the world—promised to lift me out of the drudgery of a working woman's life—turned out to be making the same promises to half a dozen other women. I don't suppose I need to spell out to you brutes just what I want done to him for this."

Moran clicked his tongue and Nines swiftly flashed a signal while their hands were still behind their back. Annoyance bloomed around the mercenary's head in the weave. He'd seen the signal just fine then.

She was lying to them.

Nines heard their partner sigh dramatically, likely exhaling a decent amount of smoke along the way judging by the woman's sudden stifled coughing.

"Madam," he said, "if you want us to do this job _correctly_ , you're going to have to give us the right information. It might not take much to put a bolt in a man's head, but doing so without the guards being able to do anything about it is another story entirely."

The woman sputtered. "I— _what?!_ You've got a lot of nerve accusing me of being dishonest, what ever could have given you that idea?! I've hardly said a word to you!"

Again Moran clicked his tongue. Nines drew their hands from behind their back and made two quick signs. Hair and clothes. Interest bloomed around the man in the weave momentarily, only to be snuffed out by a rapidly growing irritation. He'd noticed the same thing they had.

"A working woman, huh?" There was a change in his voice that signified he'd put the cigarillo back in. "Now, being a working man myself I happen to be _quite_ familiar with working women. Unless they happen to be the sort that prize their looks over their sleep, they tend not to have the time to do the kinds of braids you've got your hair in. And they tend not to buy their clothes brand new right from the shop, either. So I would suggest that if you would prefer that my partner and I not leave this little hole in the wall—" an empty threat, they would not simply leave a spurned witness without first ensuring her silence "—then I suggest you start telling us the truth about who you are and who our target is."

Silence.

A number of strong emotions sprung up around the woman. Anger. Despair. Humiliation. For a moment Nines twitched their metal hand back towards the heavy crossbow, wondering if perhaps she would attempt to attack them now that her not-so-clever ruse had been uncovered.

They would kill her, of course. If she was stupid enough to attack, she would absolutely be stupid enough to report their faces (well, face and helmet) to the guards if they let her go free. And that just wasn't an option. Moran was not a man that would handle prison well, and Nines would likely be dispelled and dismantled rather than given any sort of trial. Neither of them were willing to take such a risk over such a small job.

But eventually, she just let out a long, drawn-out groan, and said " _Fiiiiiine._ He's my husband. Are you happy now?"

Moran grunted around his cigarillo and Nines placed their hands behind their back in a return to parade rest.

They were not happy. The job hadn't even started yet and there were already problems.

But for now, this will do.

"As a clam, madam," Moran responded. "Now—would you mind telling us this poor bastard's name?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nines, originally just ???, is a Helmed Horror Warlord, created with the following 3rd party homebrew: [Monstrous Races](https://www.dmsguild.com/product/230312/Monstrous-Races), the [Redeemed Minion](https://homebrewery.naturalcrit.com/share/H1n1mCPwb) background, and of course KibblesTasty's [Warlord](https://www.gmbinder.com/share/-LW4agTNJcbwe6kSv4H2) class. Nines as ??? was a nameless minion looking for a purpose after the death of their master and creator, who would be named by whatever party they joined with the caveat that they would veto anything stupid. I played them in a oneshot with a friend of mine who played Colonel Sebastian Moran of Sherlock Holmes fame, isekai'd into the campaign setting, and was swiftly dubbed "Metalman McGee." Being a Megaman fan, I decided to branch off of that name and christened ??? "Nines."
> 
> And also I just can't imagine them without Moran there anymore.


	2. Bloodhunter: Order of the Ghostslayer

It starts out innocuously enough. They're on the road fighting bandits en route to their next _real_ enemies. One of the bandits gets a lucky punch in that sends Thorne's hat flying off of his head. And it's—annoying, really. It's just a hat. He's able to kill the bastard what did it just fine even with a greater than usual amount of sun in his eyes, and all the rest of them that are left just move on.

Then they're all settled by a campfire for the night, still about half a day's travel from their destination and talking about nothing over dinner, when Thorne realizes how such a simple thing has just completely screwed him over.

"I didn't know you dyed your hair, Thorne," Trelawney says conversationally, and it takes everything he has to not just book it away from the campsite.

It's a simple thing. A stupid thing. But there's a reason he does what he does, and there's a reason he doesn't ever talk about it.

But running away would just make everyone more curious, and that's the absolute last thing he needs. So he stays.

He disguises his mounting tension with a particularly long gulp of the soup Addika made them (and gods would he infinitely prefer to be taking a drag from one of his cigars right now) and just says, "Never felt the need to advertise it."

He can see a few nods around the campfire. Jacquill and Yosef seem to agree with his reasoning, while he can hear Addika making a thoughtful noise. Moonbright, he can't see at all, so maybe she's still off to the side checking on the horses.

"How could you tell it was dyed?" Addika asks. She's a human, and not as perceptive as the rest of them. She'll likely be wondering if there was something important she'd missed earlier.

"When the hat came off, his roots were showing," Trelawney says. She turns her attention back to him. "Why brown though? Were you just not feeling the blonde?"

He can feel himself gripping the bowl of soup harder involuntarily. There is no need to say the color. There is no need to have this conversation at all. He does what he does for a reason. They just need to accept that.

"Something like that," he says.

"Where do you even get hair dye on the road?" Yosef says unexpectedly. Thorne whips his head over in the halfling's direction as inconspicuously as he possibly can with nerves this shot. Yosef looks curious, not accusing, but that doesn't make him feel better. "And why bother in the first place? Tryna look like someone else?"

He grits his teeth and turns away. " _Something like that._ "

"What's going on?" Moonbright's overly loud voice chimes in suddenly, "Is this the part where we get to hear Thorne's tragic backstory?!"

The bowl in his hands cracks. _Audibly_ cracks. Jacquill is the one sitting closest to him around the fire and the turning of the dragonborn's head is obvious enough to know that he absolutely heard it.

Moonbright had always gotten on Thorne's nerves since they started travelling together, mostly because of her claims about them being _'half-buddies'_ , but he has never more in his life wanted to actively harm her than he does right now.

"We are absolutely _not_ ," he grinds out. He sets the bowl down and reaches into his bag.

Fuck it. If _this_ is how the night is going to go, he's getting a cigar.

"Why not?" Trelawney asks. "We've heard everyone else's by now."

"We haven't heard Jacquill's," Yosef says.

"Jacquill doesn't have a tragic backstory."

"It's true, I don't."

"That's what Addika said!"

"Yeah, but I was _lying._ I'm a rogue. We do that. Jacquill's a paladin."

"That doesn't mean Jaquill can't be lying too."

"Well, whatever the case with our resident holyboy," Moonbright's voice chimes in again, loud and clear like a bell, "Tonight's about Thorne, isn't it?"

She settles herself down next to him by the fire and flashes him a winning smile as she plucks the unlit cigar from his fingers, every bit the perfect bard, the perfect half-elf, the perfect woman, and Thorne hates her so suddenly and fiercely that it feels like being punched in the chest from the inside.

"So, what's the big secret? Running from your past? Hiding hiding from the law? Come on, we're all dying to know here." She plays with the cigar as she talks, twirling it around in her fingers like he's seen Addika do with her daggers sometimes. 

" _No_ ," he grinds out, as venomously as he possibly can.

"Don't push him, Moonie," Trelawney calls out, somehow the voice of salvation despite starting this whole mess, "I know it was my idea, but if he doesn't want to talk he doesn't want to talk. We can't _make_ him tell us."

"Doesn't mean we can't make our own guesses," Yosef points out. "My money's on outlaw. You always freeze up and try to make scarce when the cops arrive."

One of his fingers twitched. Thorne knew they would've noticed that, he wasn't exactly subtle about it, but it still unsettled him to hear it said aloud.

There are reasons for everything he does.

"Ex-cultist is my guess," Jacquill adds, voice disarmingly gentle. He holds out a scaled hand imploringly at Thorne's betrayed look. "Not that I don't trust you, lad, nor do I think that you're the sort to do something... _Evil_. But I've noticed you get real bitter whenever the gods or their worship comes up, and you don't seem the kind to just reject the heavens without a very good reason."

"I... _do_." He admits reluctantly. He doesn't say anymore, though. Just looks down and sighs and runs a hand through his hair because Moonbright's still got his cigar and he knows better than to try and take it back from her.

Gods, he's already let them hear too much. Damn the hat. Damn his hair. He still feels like booking it.

"He could be hidden royalty," Thorne hears someone say. Addika's voice. He doesn't even look up to respond to her.

"I'm _not_."

"Look you _say_ that, but statistically one of us has to be—"

" _Oh_ ," he hears and gods damnit it's Moonbright, "What if he's got an evil twin brother?!"

He wants to scream.

"Think about it, everything makes sense like that!" she says, because of course she hasn't stopped talking. "He dyes his hair so he looks less like his twin, and he hides out from the authorities in case one of them mistakes him for his brother! Even the beard helps! Most wanted posters are made after the fact based on witness description, and facial hair really has a big impact on how people perceive a face!"

She gestures to his stubble. The hair is brown, but it's not as dark as it would be if he were a natural brunet.

She's not wrong, either. Originally he didn't bother shaving because he didn't have steady access to razors, but he kept the five o'clock shadow when he realized that it got less people saying he looked familiar.

He's not going to admit that, though. He's clenching his fists to keep from hurting her so hard that his knuckles are white. Shut up. Shut up. _Shut up._

"Oh, that's probably why he smokes, too! Pipesmoke makes your voice deeper and raspier, so it'd be harder to recognize!"

"Uh, Moonie..."

"And the religion thing, maybe his brother's some kind of evil cleric. Oh, or a _paladin!_ "

"Moonbright, stop, look at him—"

"But the brother—"

Something in him snaps.

"He's not my _brother_ , _I'm his clone!_ "

The silence and the regret are immediate. Thorne doesn't quite clamp his hands over his traitorous mouth, but he desperately wants to. Everyone looks different suddenly. He's standing. Why is he standing.

Moonbright looks horrified. He has to tear his eyes away from her face because it keeps haunting him. Looking away is no salvation. All around him, sitting round the campfire with their dinner in hand, are shocked faces. Because of him. Because of what he said. Because of what he _is_.

He should probably explain himself. He absolutely does not want to explain himself.

Not now. Potentially not ever.

In the end, he doesn't quite book it. Not like he wants to. Not like he should've done in the first place. But he turns away, and he leaves the campsite, his bowl, and his cigar, and all his things long forgotten behind him without even a word of goodbye.

If any of the others try to follow, they don't make it very far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorne was inspired by (and uses) the [Clone background](https://www.dandwiki.com/wiki/Clone_\(5e_Background\)) found on Dandwiki, which I _know_ is an untrustworthy source at best, but backgrounds have very little impact on gameplay and are encouraged to be altered and made up for your preference anyways. I had the idea of a great and famous paladin waking up in an amphora and realizing that no, he's not the paladin, he's the paladin's clone, and he has no way of explaining himself to himself without potentially getting killed. So instead, he runs.


End file.
